


A return to comfort

by asterCrash



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, F/F, Mommy Issues, Mommy Kink, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 02:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4689296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterCrash/pseuds/asterCrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose has returned to her mother's home to focus on her writing. On her first night back Mom brings up an embarrassing story from her childhood that frames their relationship in a new light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A return to comfort

Your glasses clink together with a slosh of drink and a rattle of ice. Honestly you’re not sure there’s a better metaphor for your early years, better write that one down before it gets away from you.

“Rosey darling, I’m so glad you’re home!” She voices the same thought she’s apparently had a couple of dozen times since picking you up from the airport. Her smile curves no less wickedly than it ever did but you’ve got a lot more life experience under your belt since you last got to see it in person. You’re coming to appreciate your perceived rivalry might have been just her way of playing along with your teenage moods. She was always good at keeping pace with you, always took an interest in what you took an interest in. You’re a bit sheepish that you’ve never extended the same interest to her, but at least you have wizards to bond over.

“It’ll be so much fun having you back under the same roof, Rosey. Even though you’re going to be all serious business writey writeperson we’ll still get to hang out so much more! It’s gonna be great!” She slurs the last word and gives you a big sloppy wink on top of it. You never really noticed before as a child, but now that you’ve been drinking yourself for a while you realise how over the top her acting is, you wonder whether that’s some sort of defence

“I’ll admit there’s a certain nostalgia to having my old room back. And I suppose it will be nice to spend some time together, I don’t really remember us ever having a lot of family time, apart from the various clashes throughout these halls.” You’re only slightly embarrassed by your behaviour as a child, and you’re less embarrassed with every sip of this smooth, smokey Glenfiddich. You have to appreciate your mother has good taste in the finer things.

“Oh, I remember we used to spend lots of time together when you were little, we went on picnics, trips to the zoo, watched movies together. Back when we were dating of course.”

You startle for a moment, though the movement is slight and reserved it is enough to produce a rattle of ice from your glass. “Did I hear that correctly, mom? ‘When we were dating’?”

“I’m surprised you don’t remember, you must have been about ten or twelve at the time. I can still see that little determined look on your face as you strode into the room and demanded why I hadn’t told you girls could date girls.” You contort your face into what is hopefully not the expression she remembers. As much as you have absolutely no recollection of this it is sounding an awful lot like how your confrontations started off. “I’d told you as sweetly as I could that I’d never said girls _couldn’t_ date girls I just hadn’t thought my little girl was old enough to be worrying about boyfriends or girlfriends or kissing yet.” You have a very real pang in your stomach that this interaction in particular might be familiar to you after all. 

“I think I’m starting to remember.” It’s coming back to you like fragments of a dream. Or at least you thought it was a dream. “I insisted, quite rightly mind you, that I was full well old enough to know about boyfriends and girlfriends and,” a blush strikes your cheeks that has nothing to do with your consumption as a particular part of the memory comes back into focus. “And kissing.”

Your mother nods from across the table, you’re not sure if the nod is meant to be sage or meant to be mockingly sage. She palms her glass back up off the table and into her grip and leans in closer with a conspiratorial arch to her brow. “I remember you demanding, this little twelve year old girl _demanding_ that I immediately become her girlfriend. Such spunk!” She leans back into her chair to a hearty sip of her cocktail. “I couldn’t refuse, naturally. Such a charming little thing and so determined. I’m quite sure I swooned.” You’re quite sure she didn’t but to try and take away her dramatics would be like depriving an addict, the withdrawal would surely kill you both. “So from then on every weekend I’d take you out on dates at your insistence and we’d do girlfriend stuff together. I remember we had tea parties with all your soft toys, we had romantic picnics out in the backyard. We went ice skating once! Do you remember the ice skating?” You give her a tilt of the head to indicate you do indeed remember the ice skating.

“I, uh,” you’re not quite sure how to bring this next part up. “I remember I didn’t just ask you out that first day.” You’re flush with embarrassment but the whiskey in your stomach working its way into your bloodstream to massage your brain is preventing your usual tight-lipped antics from flaring up. “I insisted that if we were girlfriends then we should—”

“Yep! You didn’t even think to give me much choice in the matter, before I knew what was happening you’d launched yourself straight at me. I had to struggle to hold you in place let alone hold you back. It was quite the first kiss!” You are very glad you’re not sober for this recollection because this is almost certainly the part where you would fall into incurable histrionics for the next month. “Luckily you listened when I told you that the other person had to agree first before you could kiss them. I’m not sure I would have been able to handle my own daughter surprise-smooch-tackling me without warning on a regular basis.”

“It was just that one time, though, right?” You really hope it was just that one time but you have a sneaking suspicion this story is not over yet.

“I think you got a few more out of me. I’d have to come up with the most creative reasons to turn you down.” You’re starting to remember some of them now _sweetie, not in public; you didn’t say pretty please; mommy hasn’t had her afternoon drink just yet; I’m sorry sweetie, but you know Tuesdays are against the rules._ “It was like a game in the end, though I think it frustrated you a bit having to worm your way around an ever-expanding bureaucracy of red tape just to steal a kiss from your girlfriend.”

You both take a few moments to awkwardly reminisce. You have images of your mother, back when she towered above you, holding your hand as you’d walk around a zoo, or passing you a teacup filled with imaginary swill for you to serve to a plush squid. You remember the strange hot sensation in your stomach when you’d ask, or sometimes beg her for another kiss. You’re more familiar with the sensation these days, and the shame you feel at its memory welling up inside of you now burns almost as much. You suppose it’s the universe’s idea of revenge after all the times you teased your friends that you would be the one to come down with a case of the freudian boners.

“You know,” Mom begins pensively. “I don’t think you ever broke up with me. After a while you stopped asking for more kisses and then you had that moody phase, but I don’t think we ever actually split.” You groan at her implication. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts now babygirl, we’ve been dating for, hmm, it must be thirteen years now. Oh my, we have so many anniversaries to make up for!” Your groans intensify.

“Maybe,” you begin to suggest and shit, this is probably the whiskey talking. “Maybe you could make up for all those no doubt extravagantly overdone special occasions with a kiss? For old times’ sake.” You try to play it off as a joke, or perhaps a last ditch attempt to prevent some kind of party being thrown in celebration of your long term relationship. You’re not sure she buys the humour but she’s smiling anyway.

She straightens up in her seat in front of you, poised and elegant regardless of how many of those martinis she’s knocked back tonight. “But darling, you know that’s not how you ask if you want a kiss.” You groan.

“Please,” you falter at the beginning, knowing what she wants but too busy choking down your own pride to give it to her. You drain the dregs of your drink for confidence and settle your glass down with a determined clink. Your girlfriend mirrors your actions across the table though with a somewhat more mirthful expression. You put on your best submissive voice, hoping to shock her enough to score yourself a point “Please, Mommy, may I have a kiss?”

Her hand reaches round to cup your cheek and before you can stop yourself you’re leaning into her, letting your lips close together, chastely at first then deepening inwards. You are quite certain none of the stolen kisses of your childhood were anything like this. Your hand is on her neck, curling around to grip her and pull her in tighter to the kiss. Her hand curls upwards into your hair, tugging it out at the same time as holding you still. You’re half convinced this must be a dream because you are quite certain your mother would have no way of knowing just how much you enjoy hair pulling. Her tongue swipes across the opening between your mouths where you’re sharing each other’s breath and you dart your own out to meet it. In the clashes and swipes, reminiscent of all your somewhat combatant rapport, you taste strong gin on her. She sighs into the kiss and the taste intensifies with hints of vermouth thrown in, you’re fairly sure your blood alcohol content ticked up a percentage point just from inhaling all of that. You’re both hardly good women, and you’ve got your share of problems, but here in this moment you have each other. That seems like that should be enough, however questionable the circumstances.

Overthinking the situation seems an unattractive prospect with her guiding you from the dining table over to the couch. She seats herself and you take her in as you sink down to straddle her lap. She looks every bit the woman who raised you, the addition of laugh lines around her eyes and a tinge of grey to the blond of her hair no damper on that infectious smile or the upright way she holds herself. You want her in a way you know you shouldn’t. Her reasons for playing along with your lust elude you, but you’re too far gone to care about the ethical dilemma that waits for you in your mother’s kiss.

You lean down to take her lips once more, only to find her hand curled again in your hair holding you back up. “You only asked once, Rosey, so only one kiss. Unless you wanted another that is?” You groan again, this time in arousal more than dismay and you can hardly keep yourself from grinding down onto her thighs. 

You feel hot all over under your skin, and the growing wetness between your legs betrays how much you want this more than words over could. “Mommy, please will you kiss me?” The hand in your hair pulling you down to her mouth is all the answer you get and all the answer you need. She forces you up against her face roughly and you kiss her with all you’ve got, lips rolling over each other in a way you know will leave them bruised tomorrow. This is good, you want something to remember this drunken night of mistakes by. She sucks on your lower lip hard and the feeling of it rolls up and down your spine, depositing even more heat in your hips. You let your hands run all over her, searching for something, anything to return the feeling to her, to elicit the same responses she’s so expertly drawing out from you. She sighs exquisitely as you cup her breasts, thumbs flicking over nipples stiff enough to feel through her top and her bra. You dedicate some of what brain power you have left to working the buttons of her blouse undone, wanting better access to her sensitive spots. She takes her cues from you and lifts your top completely off. You can’t quite tell from her smile if today was a good or a bad day to be wearing the squiddles bra Jade gave you as a going away present but she runs her fingertips over the tops of your breasts and you just can’t find it in yourself to care anymore. The sensation is electric and addictive and you want her to touch you more and all over. The hot, wet feeling in the pit of your stomach has turned into an inferno of need. These panties will be ruined, you’re so slick down there.

“As cute as this is,” your mom pipes up as she unhooks your bra. “I’m afraid it just has to go. Although really, I’m not sure what I’ll be doing now that it’s gone.” She flicks the released bra over her shoulder for dramatic effect. “If only someone knew how to ask me.” Her grin burns at you like the heat between your legs and the former is definitely fueling the latter.

“Please, Mommy,” you take a breath to moan up against her and tilt your voice into a higher register. “Please, Mommy, please lick my nipples. Please suck on them, please Mommy.” You fully intend to take maximum advantage of the depravity for as long as possible. You want to find a way to send this memory directly into Sigmund Freud’s nightmares.

“Well, if my babygirl asks so nicely then how can I so no?” Your mom bends down to bring her face to your chest and takes you in her mouth, sucking hard on your right nipple while she caresses your left breast to keep it company. You grind down hard on her and shriek from the pleasure coursing through. You can feel it in the roots of your hair and the base of your tailbone. Your toes curl and you push yourself down into her lap, hoping to get some extra shred of pressure on your clit before you—

She bites your nipple hard and you reach a screaming orgasm on her thighs. The sensation overwhelms you, hardly the strongest you’ve ever felt but there’s just a magic to everything that’s wrong with this that amplifies the sensation to blinding. You’re still feeling the aftershocks of your release unstringing every muscle in your back when you realise she hasn’t yet released your nipple from her mouth.

"I think," you pant "that we are getting the roles mixed up here". It doesn't stop you from pressing her further into your cleavage as she continues suckling at your teat. 

She keeps at you just long enough for you to confirm the heat in your loins is not yet doused before pulling back from your chest. "Is my babygirl saying that she would like to return the favour?" She finishes your work by popping her blouse open revealing something lacy enough to belong in the risque fantasy of a girl with too many mommy issues to count. You lift yourself off her thighs, ignoring the wet spot you've left on her skirt and reposition yourself seated sidesaddle in her lap. You're just drunk enough to find face-planting directly into her waiting cleavage hilarious and fortunately so is she.

After the peals of her laughter die away, she takes to stroking your hair while you keep your head firmly rooted between the softness of her breasts. You really hope this skin is genetic and she doesn’t have some crazy anti-aging routine because you’ve felt coarser flesh on girls your own age. “Does my darling daughter have anything she’d like to ask for while she’s down there?” You mumble something into the hollow of her bosom that may or may not be an affirmation. “Are you going to make me guess?” You rub your head up and down against her to indicate that yes you are. She leans around your head to whisper hot in your ear “Do you want to suck on your mother’s tits, Rose?” You whine an affirmation into her skin, high and needy. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire, as if there can be anything more embarrassing than what’s already been and gone tonight.

“I want to suck on them so hard, mommy. I want to make you cum like I did.” You feel her shiver beneath you hard and involuntary and score yourself that long awaited point. Lalonde junior is clearly not out of the running for this flighty broad race.

“Well, let me get this fucking thing out of the way then.” You pull back from her chest, not without stealing a parting kiss however, and watch her frantically strip for you. It’s good to know the experience gap doesn’t mean she’s any less eager to have your lips on her body than you were. A stylish and no doubt pricey bra gets haphazardly thrown across the room along with her blouse. You curl back up around her now bared torso, flicking the hardened nub adorning one breast idly with your lower lip while you bring a hand up to roll its twin between thumb and forefinger. She coos at your attentions, bringing an arm around to support you from behind and hold you in closer to her. The hand at your back wends its way upwards, trailing tantalisingly across the nape of your neck before tangling once more in your hair to pull at your roots. You’re going to have knots tangled in there for days (assuming tonight is an isolated incident) and you can’t care. All you can think about is the taste of her as you lap at her nipple with just the tip of your tongue, not yet willing to take her fully in your mouth. You’ve waited thirteen years for this catharsis, she can put up with a few minutes of teasing. 

Her spare hand wanders down to your thighs, brushing over the bare skin with only the lightest touch before moving further up to fiddle with the hem of your skirt. “Babygirl, I want to make you feel good. Is it okay if I, uh, if I use my fingers to—” You take her in your mouth and suck hard, cutting her off with her own breathless “Oh,” as she arches up off the couch and into you.

“Your fingers will do just fine, Mom.” You feel slightly bad for breaking character but from this position, cradled in her lap and suckling at her teat like a babe, you feel so strangely dominant it just doesn’t make sense to keep up the high pitched dirty talk. You’re just you now, the two of you in an extension of your usual interplay, however unexpected. There’s a bite of competitiveness to your love-making, the almost sisterly rivalry you’ve felt for her since you hit puberty, which seems to have resolved into something a little less than psychologically healthy, but at the end of the day who gives a fuck? You’re both adults, you both want this, you’re both very drunk but everyone’s checking for consent, so really, fuck the consequences. You’ll deal with your hangover in the morning.

She slides a hand up under your skirt to press her fingertips into the soaked material of your panties. You’re surprised by her dexterity, fingers bending backwards to run up the wet opening of your lips through the cloth. She reaches the top of her stroke achingly close to your need and you know, just know she’s stopping short to tease you. You redouble your efforts at her breasts, sucking hard at one at the same time as you pinch the tip of the other. You try to take as much of her as possible into your mouth and the way it affects her shows in the way her fingers quiver against your nethers. She takes the time to pull your panties to the side, revealing your wetness to the pleasantly cool air of the living room. She strokes at you again, fingerprint pressing in between your labia ever so slightly and every bit as sensually as you could ever have imagined. You want to cry out for her, you want to rut yourself down on her hand, but you let her keep to her agonising touches and you make your best efforts to make her beg first.

She's beginning to lift her hips up into you, pumping against the weight of your ass on her loins. You squirm in place for her, trying to rub her just right, just like she's rubbing you and a short gasp of breath is your reward. It's the little movements, the way she fidgets against you that let you know how you're affecting her. Any loud porn star moans would be a sure sign of condescension, her usual dramatics somehow carried through to the metaphorical bedroom, but the tiny gestures are where you know she's going off-script. They're what lets you know she wants to fuck you as much as you want her to.

You let yourselves get into a rhythm for a time, working each other back and forth in the relative silence of your mutually stilted breathing. She caresses you, but never enters you fully and never deigns to touch you where you need her so much. You lick and bite and squeeze and suck on her, to her obvious enjoyment, but you've no way to give her any concrete relief downstairs with your rear positioned over her entrance. Instead you let the hand caught between you fiddle with her waistband, ensuring she knows just how tantalisingly close that release is. You find yourself fiddling with the zip of her skirt, wondering at its contents. You're hardly new to the sapphic arts, you like to think there's more than a handful of beautiful women out there who'd testify to the skill of your tongue. Still, you definitely feel like you have something to prove here. She managed to bring you to a climax with just a hand in your hair and her mouth on your tits, you’ve got to get on the scoreboard if you don’t want every myth about slacker millennials to be thrown in your face for the next month. You do take a brief moment to wonder whether your mother would honestly be comfortable bringing up the fact that she had sex with her own daughter just to point out that she was better at it. You decide the answer is a resounding yes.

She whines when you take your mouth from her nipple, a whine that lifts into a sigh as you give it one parting lap with your tongue. The sigh is replaced by a shriek as you pull her down flat onto the couch and for a second she just lays stunned as you extract her hand from your nethers, however tantalising its visit might have been. She gets with the program around the time you begin tugging her loosened skirt down across her hips, sliding it off long silken legs along with her pantyhose. The lacy bra it seems came as a set, but you leave the silken panties where they are for now, taking some pleasure in how sodden they look, even from your position high above her. You lean, down, down and close to her seat of pleasure, breath her musky need in with something of a victorious grin. You did this to her. After all these years you finally feel on top in your rivalry. Victory is in sight and smells so strongly of its desire for you. You want to give her what she wants, provided of course what she wants is your tongue in her cunt.

“Mother, may I?” You do your best to be the breathy sexpot in all the best saucy movies your mother let you get away with watching. Jennifer Tilly has nothing on your dulcet tones from the way Mom moans and lifts her hips skyward for you. You’re going to take that as an enthusiastic ‘yes’. You keep your eyes on her as you move down, breathing hard and hot onto the silk so she can feel how utterly close you are to her, how penultimate this moment might be to her release. Naturally, you don’t make it that easy for her. You glide over her still-covered sex and move up towards her belly button, french-kissing the relatively insensitive skin as a tantalising teaser for what she surely hopes to come. You work her over with your tongue enough to make her writhe impatiently before trailing your tip down the trail of silken soft skin towards her mound. You recall a very heated study session you and Jade once held in the seclusion of her dorm room, mapping out the myriad blood vessels just above the hip bones and testing the extremity of the sensations. You unravel her with your breath, not letting your lips even brush the surface of those passageways now, running back and forth across her as her softest gasps become louder and more insistent. To up the ante you even let your fingertips brush her, nails tracing their way up the inside of her shapely thighs only to depart agonisingly close to the silk barrier to your final conquest. 

Her hands occupy themselves with her breasts, perhaps knowing you’d swat them away should she attempt to find any self-satisfaction in her lower half. She paws and gropes at herself, twisting her nipples and squeezing sensitive flesh more roughly than you would have dared. You’re almost disappointed you didn’t know the subtle masochistic streak is apparently a family trait, you’re sure you could have provided more in the way of gropage earlier had you known. For now, they make it apparent you’ve been going too easy on her, you trail down to the space between her legs, and at that most sensitive portion of her thighs you bite hard. She yelps and thrusts up with her hips, a most satisfying victory in itself but you’re positively _giddy_ to hear her follow-up with “Oh Rosey, do _that_ again.” You oblige, to the fullest of your ability, nipping each leg and slathering the reddened marks with your tongue. You suck hard on the her thighs, hoping to leave bruises for her to savour all week, you want her to look down at herself and see that she was defeated.

Her breath is coming in wanton gasps now, stuttering drawn breaths seeming entirely involuntary. You’re torn at this point, on the one hand you’re pretty sure you could make her cum without ever having to put your tongue to her need, a satisfying show of dominance on your part, on the other hand, you want to taste her so bad you can metaphorically taste your want of tasting her. You’re salivating at the sight of her, so much more desperate for you than you think you’ve ever made a woman. The word writhe was invented purely to describe the way she contorts in front of you, her body pummeled by the sensation overload you’ve brought upon her. You wonder how much longer you can leave her in this situation before having to make a choice. She makes it for you.

Her hand strikes out to grasp your hair and with a firm yank pushes you nose first into her panties. You moan loud enough for both of you as her scent becomes overpowering and you bring your tongue out to lap at the silk between you and her. She tastes like you, in a way that is retrospectively unsurprisingly and also deeply arousing. You wonder if you’ll think back to this moment for years to come whenever licking your fingers clean after some personal relaxation time. The thought alone is enough to send your hand up your skirt and you touch yourself shamelessly as you lick your mother through the fabric of her underwear. The teasing is long over, you ensure her clit receives the majority of your attention, pressing down hard and circling at the speed that makes her move the most. Her hand hasn’t moved from your hair, pulling tight and making you burn with more need than you’ve felt at any point in this evening or perhaps any evening before in your life.

Eventually lapping at silk isn’t enough, you need more of her. You do your best to erotically pull off her underwear with your teeth only to find this is not possible with such a well fitting and, more importantly, _sodden_ pair. Sheepishly the hand on your head disengages to assist you in the removal and at last she’s bared before you. You take the opportunity to stand up and shimmy out of your skirt and squiddles underwear, making sure she gets a look at the full package before returning to the couch and the warm space between her legs. You dive back into her, at last tasting her directly from the source, running your tongue along the folds of her labia and pushing in deeper, searching for sweeter feelings. You return your hand to its former work at your clit, rubbing circles around yourself so nicely you can’t help but moan into your mother’s opening. She’s moaning as well, no longer able to keep to reserved gasps and sighs, she bucks her hips up into your mouth with a growing frenzy. She calls your name, incoherently, with a love you’d always assumed to be behind your interactions, rendered so utterly sexy by the sight of her moving beneath your ministrations. You have her now, you have all of her.

“Rosey, Rosey, please come up,” she cuts herself off with a grunt that you can feel through her entire body “Come up here.” You cease giving her an internal tongue bath and move forward, crawling across her body like a tiger, or one of the sexier big cats at the very least. She pulls you into an embrace, the physical affection feels foreign but your lust overrides years of perceived distance. The sensation of your breasts pressing together rolls down your shoulders and ends somewhere just above your ass, about the same time as you feel her hand reach around to firmly squeeze said ass and send the feeling shooting right back up your spine. Her legs separate yours and her thigh lift up to press into your warmth. Catching on, you lift your own leg to provide similar pressure for her and with your mirroring complete she begins to rut up against you, moving her leg in time to keep you trapped in the motion. You’re stuck with what to do with your hands, knowing you’ll never be able to match up to her kneading your rear in your current position you bring them to her face. You’re amazed that given all the sensations being hurled at you right now the softness of her cheeks under your fingers is the thing you find yourself lost in. You continue your rhythm on her leg and lift her face up to meet yours. Her lips press against yours and in an instant her tongue is working its way into your mouth. You wonder if she can taste herself on your. You wonder if she’d agree the two of you have the same taste. You can still taste the gin on her, but in your own mouth even the finest of whiskey has been wiped away by the flavour of your mother’s wetness. You hope she derives something of the titillation you feel at sucking her own juices off her daughter’s tongue. You give yourself to the kiss, to the feel of her legs against yours and her hands on you and just to her. She’s yours and you’re hers and you both belong to each other and no one else in this one perfect moment of pleasure. Suffice to say, you have yourself another screaming orgasm at your mother’s doing. You feel her give way under you, convulsing up into your knee for that last bit of pressure to send her over the edge. You press into her as far as you can go with your whole body, desperate to make sure she’ll be savouring the same afterglow as yourself for the week to come. At last she releases, her abdominal muscles a rush of activity under you as she clenches down hard on your thigh and holds you tight to her. The two of you lie there for a time, dazed and warm and, in your own opinion, quite sated. At some point you drift off.

\--------------------------------------

You wake in a bed that is not yours in a house that is. It takes a few groggy seconds of viewing the room around you to realise this is Mom’s room, complete with plush wizards on every flat surface and indulgently pink and cutesy furniture. You roll over under the doona to find the woman herself stirring awake beside you. This is about the time you realise the two of you are still very naked under the covers. This is by far the most awkward experience of your life, and from the look on her face she can say the same. Without the alcohol to blame for your lapse in judgement anymore the two of you are forced to confront a new reality, for the few minutes it will take one of you to hastily abscond and then never speak of last night again. You furrow your brow at the thought. It just felt so _right_ , regardless of your relationship, or perhaps because of your relationship, to have had that experience. You don’t want to hide it. You want to repeat it. So you take a gamble at your heart’s expense and reach out underneath the sheet, searching for her hand. When you find the clammy appendage you hold in tight in your own and look her straight in the eyes, unblinking and as determined as that day 13 years ago when you’d asked her to be your girlfriend. It takes a second for the shock to fade from her face and a familiar smile to form.

“Rosey darling, I’m so glad you’re home.”


End file.
